Acts of Fate
by Akane-Rei
Summary: reuploaded due to errors: vignettes on the fates' influence in the Quest Team's lives
1. Episode One: Twisted Destinies

disclaimer: jq:tra belongs to hb. no profit is made from this venture.  
  
archivers: let me know where  
  
author's note: each part of this fic will be a story within itself -- so no cliffhangers -- but a part of the whole. the timeline of the events as I write them would not be in chronological order. The episodes will jump from one time to another, backwards or forwards.  
  
oh, and I took liberties in regards to the appearance of the three fates. I know they're supposed to be three old crones, but in this fic, Clotho has the look of a young teenager, Lachesis has the appearance of a woman in her twenties or thirties while Atropos remains an old woman.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Acts of Fate by Akane-Rei  
  
It was said that the destiny of mankind is woven in a loom by the three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho, the maiden, uses her nimble fingers to decide which course each human thread will take in its lifetime. Lachesis, the mother, decides on the length each human thread will have for its lifetime. And Atropos, the crone, cuts the thread, ending the life of a mortal . . .  
  
Episode 1: Twisted Destinies  
  
"This will be one of my more interesting patterns," said Clotho, looking at the newly entwined threads in her hands.  
Lachesis smiled indulgently at the youth as she looked at what Clotho was referring too. Frowning, she said, "Are you sure it's wise to put weave those two together? They're so different!" She looked at the threads again. "Why I remember those! That one, over there," she said pointing to one of the two spun threads, "had the roughest texture while that other one was quite smooth."  
Clotho smiled. "They will complement each other," she replied, "And their friendship will last a lifetime."  
"Enough chit chat!" exclaimed Atropos from her bent position. "Lachesis, where do you want me to cut this one?"  
Lachesis sighed and stared at the new set of thread in her hands. Getting a feel for them, she said, "This one should only be this long," indicating the length with her hands.  
Clotho stared at her new pattern in her loom again and said, "Just wait and see."  
  
******************************  
  
"It's time to consider a bodyguard, Dr. Quest," said the President of the United States to the grief-stricken man hunched over in his office.  
Dr. Benton Quest stood up from his sitting position and faced the president. His haunted, blood shot eyes stared unseeingly at nothing for a moment when he said, "You know I don't want--"  
"I know you don't," he replied. "However, you must also think of your son. We do not want what happened to Rachel to happen to him."  
Benton's eyes widened.  
"And that's another thing, Benton," he said, "Now, I'm telling you this as a friend. You must snap out of this guilt you carry. It was not your fault."  
Benton closed his eyes and tried to supress the memory of a laughing blond-haired woman. Rachel, he thought. Rachel.  
Benton looked at his friend and said, "Yes, it is."  
They took her because of something they wanted from him. From him, and not anyone else. This whole thing was all his fault. All his damn fault.  
Maybe if he gave them what they wanted . . .  
Maybe if he didn't invent that thing . . .  
Maybe if he could have gotten there sooner . . .  
Maybe . . .Maybe . . .Maybe . . .  
He can feel an emotion threatening to rise up and overwhelm him.  
"Dammit!" he said, interrupting Benton's thoughts. "Jonny needs you to be strong throughout all this."  
Jonny, he thought. Jonny, who reminded him so much of Rachel. Jonny, who kept asking for his mother during the last week. Jonny, whose young hand patted his that morning, as if trying to comfort him. Jonny, who lost his mother. Jonny, who was part of Rachel.  
Benton took a deep breath and finally muttered, "I'll look into that bodyguard thing. I don't want this thing to happen to Jonny."  
"Forget about it," he said. "I already have someone in mind as to who would be the best one for the job."  
Benton looked at him gratefully and made a move to leave.  
"Benton," he said.  
Benton looked back inquiringly.  
"He'll be there tomorrow."  
He nodded and left.  
  
******************************  
  
The ringing of the doorbell disturbed little Jonny from his perusal of his new pet: a small grasshopper. Wiping his nose with his sleeve, he looked towards the door in his room and scrambled to his feet. The house had been quiet for a while now and not many people come anymore so he was curious to see who was at the door.  
Jumping from his bed, he headed towards the stairs and peered down from the banisters. From this angle, he can see his father open the door and greet someone outside.  
It was a man. Taller than his dad, in fact.  
He looked closer.  
It was a really old man. Why all his hair were white.  
Jonny strained his ears to hear what his father and the man were saying.  
"Dr. Quest?" he heard the man ask.  
"Yes," replied his dad.  
"My name is Roger Bannon."  
  
*******************************  
  
Yes, Clotho thought. This would set up quite an interesting pattern  
She glanced at the surrounding threads which will be affected by this new development.  
I'll make it up to you, she thought. You'll see.  
  
Revised September, 2003 


	2. Episode Two: Atonement

disclaimer: jq:tra belongs to hb. no profit is made from this venture.  
  
author's note: again, this series is in no chronological order. it doesn't matter which you read first. the category for this series will differ depending on which episode.  
  
I took liberties in regards to the appearance of the three fates. I know they're supposed to be three old crones, but in this fic, Clotho has the look of a young teenager, Lachesis has the appearance of a woman in her twenties or thirties while Atropos remains an old woman.  
  
for this one, the info I got are few and scattered in between so I made up some of them.  
  
warning: language  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Acts of Fate by Akane-Rei  
  
It was said that the destiny of mankind is woven in a loom by the three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho, the maiden, uses her nimble fingers to decide which course each human thread will take in its lifetime. Lachesis, the mother, decides on the length each human thread will have for its lifetime. And Atropos, the crone, cuts the thread, ending the life of a mortal . . .  
  
Episode 2: Atonement  
  
"This is a beautiful thread," said Lachesis admiringly. "The colors are so vibrant . . . it deserves to be part of the tapestry for a significant time."  
Atropos squinted her eyes and looked closely at what held Lachesis' attention for the last ten minutes. "Hmmm . . ." she murmured. "You might be right at that. It will liven up the pattern."  
Lachesis smiled. "This thread shall be a long one," she said, talking to herself. She unwound it from its ball and began measuring for the length.  
Atropos grabbed her scissors and waited patiently for Lachesis to finish her part of the work. She cackled. Clotho would love this thread. The wonders she could do with it . . . She was contemplating on the possibilities of such work when she felt herself shoved from behind. She gasped, trying to regain her balance when she saw the blades of her scissors touch the thread Lachesis so admired.  
No, she thought.  
"NO!" shouted Lachesis. She looked in horror as the thread she so prized was cut midway.  
Both turned to look at the perpetrator who caused this tragedy.  
Clotho looked inquiringly at them. "I'm sorry a bumped into you Atropos," she apologized. "I was running and I tripped --"  
"Do you know what you've done!" shouted Atropos.  
Clotho finally looked at what both Fates held in their hands. "Oh what a beautiful . . ." she began, when she saw the reason for their anger. "Oh," she said quietly.  
Lachesis started to cry. "What a waste," she said. "What a waste."  
Clotho approached her and took the thread from her hands. She held it reverently in her hands as she slowly walked towards her loom.  
She started to weave.  
"I'll make it up to you," she whispered, but with great determination as her fingers began their magic. "I promise."  
  
********************************  
  
One regret, she thought, as she looked back in her life. Only one regret.  
Now, not many people can say that once faced with their own mortality, but she can. Her life had been lived to the fullest, one adventure after another. And within all that, her family and friends.  
She started to sob. One regret, she thought again. Only one.  
She had been blessed. She belonged to a family that loves her, supports her, cherishes her. All her life, not a moment was wasted. She had lived, not just existed. She had known sorrow, but there was always someone there to offer comfort. She had known bliss and had had someone there to share it with her. No, her life was one which many would envy.  
Perhaps that was it, she thought. It was just too damn good. And someone, somewhere out there, was jealous.  
She coughed and tasted the blood that rose up to her mouth. A second later, her eyes confirmed it as she saw the brilliant red stain which covered her hands after she covered her mouth with them.  
She was dying. She knew it the moment she became lucid.  
She looked at her assailants and almost cursed herself for her stupidity. She couldn't believe she fell for the I'm-lost-can-you-give-me- the-directions approach. Her judgment of the human character must be slipping. She groaned and mentally kicked herself for the umpteenth time.  
He had warned her to be careful. In fact, he had insisted that he come to the mall with her, but she, being the independent I-can-do-it- myself person that she is, refused and told him to relax. After all, what could happen in a public place in broad daylight?  
A lot, apparently.  
She struggled to maintain her sitting position. She didn't know what it was they injected in her, but whatever it was, it was working like a charm. Her legs felt like the jelly she and Jonny enjoyed making so much. She was feeling so lethargic . . . No wonder they don't tie her up anymore. She couldn't even stand up on her own if her life depended on it.  
She looked around her, her head wobbling at the movement. Her vision was a little blurry, but she can still make out the people who were in the room with her.  
She glanced at the door, hearing the approach of footsteps. She saw as it was opened by a man, the same one whom she had heard talking on the phone, making demands for her release.  
She hated this. She abhorred the fact that they're using her to get to him. Again, she berated herself for putting herself in this position, for enabling them to put him in this position.  
"Kill her," she heard him say tersely.  
She gasped. 'No,' she wanted to say. 'Please, no. I have a --'  
"Her old man called in his friends in the government," he told his companions. "They're going to be so hot on our trail . . . she's a liability."  
She watched with dread as one of them approached her, carrying his revolver.  
Only one regret, she thought. Jonny . . . I'll never . . .  
The sound of the gun blast was the last thing that penetrated senses.  
  
*******************************  
  
"We're sorry, Dr. Quest," he said.  
Jonny approached his father from behind. He stared at his face and saw an awful look. He looked back at the man in the doorway and glared at him, the one that probably caused his father to be sad. He tugged insistently at his father's hand, willing him to look at him. He has an important question to ask and he wanted answers NOW.  
His father looked down at him and he saw the strangest expression in his face.  
"Hey, dad," he said in a small voice, "is mom here, yet?"  
Dr. Benton Quest looked down at his son and said, "Jonny, let me talk to this man first okay?"  
Jonny looked at him suspiciously and said, " 'kay."  
He gave the man by the door another glare for taking away his father's attention at that moment and ran towards the living room. He'd wait for his mom there.  
  
*****************************  
  
Dr. Quest looked back at his guest and said, "My son and I would like to be alone now. If there is anything else --"  
"Nothing that won't wait 'till tomorrow," he replied.  
Benton nodded his head and closed the door firmly, but quietly. He leaned against it and stared at the direction Jonny took. He took a deep breath.  
Rachel, he thought as he tried to stem the tide of emotion that welled up in his chest. Rachel.  
  
******************************  
  
"This is how you make it up to her?" demanded Lachesis.  
Clotho looked at her and replied in a quiet voice, "I gave her a life worth living."  
She looked at her incredulously. "What about the family, huh?" she asked. "Do you think she would have liked to leave them alone?"  
"The thread was too short," she answered, trying to maintain a serene pose. "I wanted her to affect as many lives as possible and I did that." She paused. "But I couldn't lengthen the thread. It was just time to go and that was the only option left."  
Lachesis sniffed. "She had one regret," she said.  
"I'm sorry," said Clotho quietly, whether to herself, to Lachesis, or to the woman the thread represented, she didn't know. "I know she wanted to see her son grow up, but that was impossible. The thread was just . . . cut too soon."  
A moment of silence past as both remembered the event that led to that result.  
Finally, Lachesis got up.  
"I'll go find Atropos now," she said, not wanting to watch Clotho weave more lives in her loom.  
Clotho watched her walk away, then stared back at her loom, looking at the other entwined threads.  
"I'll take care of them," she said. "Don't worry."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Revised September, 2003 


	3. Episode Three: Full of Grace

disclaimer: jq:tra belongs to hb. the song "full of grace" was written by sarah mclachlan. no profit is made from this venture.  
  
introductory stuff: alright, this particular series of mine is not a continuing one. each episode/vignette can exist by itself as a story on it's own. therefore, each episode is a "finished" story/product. the only thing they have in common is the fates. please remember that the 'acts of fate' series is written in no chronological order  
  
I took liberties in regards to the appearance of the three fates. I know they're supposed to be three old crones, but in this fic, Clotho has the look of a young teenager, Lachesis has the appearance of a woman in her twenties or thirties while Atropos remains an old woman.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Acts of Fate by Akane-Rei  
  
It was said that the destiny of mankind is woven in a loom by the three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho, the maiden, uses her nimble fingers to decide which course each human thread will take in its lifetime. Lachesis, the mother, decides on the length each human thread will have for its lifetime. And Atropos, the crone, cuts the thread, ending the life of a mortal . . .  
  
Episode Three: Full of Grace  
  
"Was that really necessary?" queried Lachesis as she peered down into the work of Clotho.  
Clotho pursed her lips and looked at her latest handiwork. She hated this part of her duty. While it's true that Atropos's and Lachesis have the unfortunate duty of having to control the length of the lives of her threads, weaving their lives can be just as devastating. Sometimes, unpleasant things must happen for the greater good. The problem is that the greater good sometimes seem so far away . . .  
"I have a plan," Clotho replied, her hands working steadily.  
Atropos shook her head. "Poor kid," she cackled as she hobbled back to her threads, clutching a sharp object near her chest. "Poor, poor kid."  
"It's better this way," muttered Clotho. "They weren't really happy anymore, anyway." She proceeded to weave her threads, noticing the slight tremble in her fingers.  
  
****************************  
  
"The winter here's cold, and bitter it's chilled us to the bone . . ."  
  
She shivered under the one hundred degree weather and wiped the sweat from her face as she furiously dug through the dirt of her self-made garden. It had just got to rain soon.  
"'One month,' he says," muttering under her breath as she attacks a particularly stubborn weed, wishing it was someone else she knew.  
Again she shivered, feeling a coldness within her that belied her surroundings.  
"'I promise,' he says," she whispers angrily, her voice hoarse with emotion. Choking sounds escaped her mouth as she continued on with her weeding, ignoring the painful rays of the sun as they burned her exposed skin. All her focus seeming to be on the soil in her hands as she continued with her task. She runs her hands against the damp earth, trying to savor their coolness as they touched her skin, trying to forget what drove her to dig through this earth in the first place.  
The earth has always comforted her ever since she was young. She loved its smell, its texture just before and after a bout of spring rain. She loved their constancy throughout her life. She loved the calmness they gave her. But most of all, she loved the secrets they let her uncover as she digs through them.  
  
"We haven't seen the sun for weeks to long too far from home . . ."  
  
"'This is the last one,' he says," she said through her teeth. "The last one," she murmurs, her quick movement going to a halt. She looked at her handiwork, her vision blurry. She took a deep breath, but the lump on her throat prevented her from swallowing. She bit her lip and tried to stop the sob that rose in her throat.  
"I'm not going to cry," she told herself. "Never again."  
She watched as tear drops fell on her hands.  
Damn.  
Damn, damn, DAMN!  
  
"I feel just like I'm sinking and I claw for solid ground . . ."  
  
Furious with herself -- and at HIM -- she stood up jerkily, clumsily trying to wipe the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.  
She knew what had to be done. She'd known for awhile, as a matter of fact.  
She just didn't want to do it.  
She'd always hated admitting defeat.  
But this time, this time, she lost. She lost the moment she married him. No, even before that. She lost the moment she first saw him. The moment she fell in l--  
She chokes back another sob.  
It's time to cut her losses.  
  
"I'm pulled down by the undertow I never thought I could feel so low . . ."  
  
"Momma?"  
She looks at where the voice came from.  
'Jessie,' she thought. 'My Jessie.'  
She watches as her daughter runs towards her in greeting. Crouching down to her knees, she catches Jessie as her little girl hurls herself towards her.  
"Hey, baby," she said softly. "Did you have a nice nap?"  
She watches as Jessie gazed solemnly into her face. She felt her daughter's chubby hand rub against her cheek.  
"Momma cry?" Jessie asked, her voice breaking.  
Estella watched as Jessie's lips begin to tremble.  
She tried to smile. "Ofcourse not, Jessie," she tried to reassure her.  
' I'm sorry, Jessie,' she thought.  
She watched her daughter's green eyes observe her like a hawk. Then a bright smile eclipsed her round face. "Papa's here!" she said, her green eyes twinkling. "Shhh . . . it's surprise," she said seriously.  
  
"Oh darkness I feel like letting go . . ."  
  
She looks up and there he was, lounging by the screen door, watching her with the same intense look he always had.  
"Roger," she whispers, unsure now how to greet him.  
She stood up, slowly, and watched him as he began to walk lazily in her direction.  
Stopping in front of her, she watched as he smiled towards their daughter and at the same time cup her own cheek.  
"Surprise," he said looking into her eyes as his head descends and his lips touch hers.  
She closes her eyes, her mind screaming at her to stop this now. She had made her decision and that's that.  
Her heart pounds and she wonders if he could hear it.  
She felt his lips move against hers.  
'One last time,' she thought. 'One last time.'  
  
"If all of the strength and all of the courage . . ."  
  
Something was wrong.  
He knew it the moment she stood up and stared at him. He knew it the moment he heard his Ponchita ask her if she was crying.  
He could see the struggle in her eyes as she looked at him. She wanted to tell him something and he knew he wasn't going to like it.  
Coward that he was, he stopped her the only way he knew how.  
He can see the moisture beneath her closed lids.  
He felt her break the kiss and finally open her eyes.  
And he stared at the eyes that imprisoned him the moment he met them.  
"We need to --"  
'NO, we don't!,' his mind furiously thought.  
"talk," she finished quietly.  
  
"Come and lift me from this place . . ."  
  
'Give me another chance,' he had wanted to ask. 'Just one more,' he had wanted to beg. He, who had never begged for anything in his life before, came closer than he had ever been to going down on his knees and begging.  
But he didn't.  
He had stared at her across the kitchen table and lost his temper.  
He'd accused her of a hundred things, a thousand things.  
She didn't understand. She wasn't fair. She didn't know anything . . . She, she, SHE.  
Never him. Never him.  
He stopped walking aimlessly and stared at his surroundings. Darkness had fallen and the streets were quiet. The silence oppressed him and he began to run, unknowingly shouting his anguish.  
  
"I know I could love you much better than this . . ."  
  
He watched her lying in bed, their bed. Her russet hair was scattered in disarray across her pillow, a pillow they had shared.  
He leaned over as his hand reached out to touch her cheek when he noticed the damp spot by her head.  
Crying.  
His Estella was crying. The woman he had promise to love, cherish, and protect was crying.  
Because of him.  
His fingers curled back into his hand and he stepped away from her. He took a deep breath, trying to alleviate the heaviness from his chest.  
He walked out of the room, their room.  
  
"Full of grace . . ."  
  
And walked into his daughter's room.  
He almost smiled.  
The little imp was pretending to be asleep.  
He watched as her eyelids flickered as she took a peek at who it was that arrived in her room. He almost laughed when her eyes grew wide and quickly shut.  
"I know you're awake, Ponchita," he said wryly.  
He saw her carefully open her eyes, one at a time and look at him apprehensively.  
"No nap," she declared, almost daring him.  
And in that moment, she reminded him so much of Estella . . .  
  
"Full of grace . . ."  
  
His heart contracted and he gave her a smile.  
Seeing his acquiescence, his daughter launched herself at him in delight, her arms wrapped around his neck.  
"Want to play?" she asked mischievously.  
He grinned.  
"Sure," he answered, knowing that this was going to be one of the last nights he'll have with her in a long time.  
This time, he was going to do the right thing.  
  
"My love . . ."  
  
He watched his daughter finally sleep for the night.  
'You know I love you, right, Ponchita?" he had asked.  
She had beamed at him as she nodded her head furiously. "I love you, papa," she had said with her cute smile just as she yawned her exhaustion.  
"Remember that, okay?" he had told her just as she drifter off to sleep.  
He saw her nod at him in response as she curled up in her bed.  
Finally, he brushed his hand against her cheek and headed for his own room.  
He had some packing to do.  
  
"So it's better this way, I said having seen this place before . . ."  
  
A noise woke her up. Blinking, she rubbed her eyes as the vestige of her disturbing night made itself known.  
"I'm sorry," she heard from her side. "I didn't mean to wake you."  
She watched as her husband stuffed his clothes in his duffel bag.  
"Wh--what's going on?" she asked quietly, her sleepiness leaving her in a second.  
He stopped with what he was doing, his back turned to her.  
"I'm giving you what you want," he said tersely. Then, he spurred himself into action once more as he began packing more of his clothes.  
This was what she wanted? She almost laughed at the ludicrousness of it all. She had never wanted this. Fate, however, made this her only option.  
  
"Where everything we said and did hurts us all the more . . ."  
  
Her breathing was uneven, as if trying to get over her shock.  
She didn't know what to say, how to act. So she remained silent.  
She watched him as he methodically went through his drawer, folding his clothes. When his hands opened the dresser containing Jessie's things, however, she spoke before she could stop herself, before she could think.  
"You can't take her!" she said shrilly. "You'll be gallivanting around the world in that job of yours and --"  
His hand froze as he turned to look at her, an emotion evident in his eyes.  
"I just wanted a picture," he whispered. "How can you even think that I would --"  
She stared at him, regret written in her eyes.  
"Well to hell with you," he broke out savagely. He shook his head and grabbed a frame from the top of the dresser.  
His movements jerky, he swung his duffel bag and headed out of the door. "I'll send for the rest of my stuff," he said as he went out the door.  
  
"It's just that we stayed, too long in the same old sickly skin . . ."  
  
"Wait!" she called out as she spurred from the bed. "Roger, wait!"  
She ran down the hallway, trying to catch up with him. He, however, had other ideas.  
He was inside his car by the time she reached him.  
"Roger!" she shouted, as raindrops started falling from the sky.  
Ignoring her, he started the engine.  
"God dammit!" she shouted, "I said wait!" She slammed her hands on the front of his car, blocking his way. "I said wait," she said softly, knowing he couldn't hear her.  
They stared at each other through the windshield and the sluicing rain. Her face was wet and she didn't know whether it was a result of the rain or the tears that began to fall freely the moment she went out of the house.  
She heard, more than saw, him turn off the engine. She watched as he slowly got out of his car and walk towards her. Gently, he led her back into the house and into their living room.  
She shivered as she sat down on the couch and felt him place a towel around her shoulders.  
She looked at him earnestly and with a quivering voice said, "I -- I'm sorry."  
She watched him take a deep breath and look down at her.  
"So am I," he said softly, crouching on his knees as he cupped her cheek. Giving her forehead a gentle kiss, he stood back up and placed his hands in his pocket. "But it's too late for us, isn't it?"  
She took a deep breath and nodded her head imperceptibly.  
  
"I'm pulled down by the undertow I never thought I could feel so low . . ."  
  
"I thought so," he said in a rough voice. "I thought so."  
He walked across the room.  
"Do you know when?" he asked as he stared at the rain from the window. "Do you know when we started to grow apart?"  
She shook her head. She couldn't recall a time or a place when it started. All she knew was that she woke up one morning to realize that she didn't have a husband, and had not had one for quite awhile. She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, hoping she can wake up from this life.  
She heard Roger come back in front of her and she opened her eyes to look up at him. She saw her take something out of his pocket and hand the object to her.  
"I would appreciate it if you would call this number when you go on your digs and just let me or the person who answers the phone know where you are," he said steadily. "I'd like to be able to visit Jessie whenever I could."  
  
"Oh darkness I feel like letting go . . ."  
  
Taking the number from his fingers, she nodded her head and watched as he walked away from her for the last time. She watched as he opened the door and let himself out into the pouring rain.  
She started to stand up, only to sink back down to her knees and into the floor. She stared at the paper in her hands through the tears that gathered once again in her eyes.  
  
"If all of the strength . . ."  
  
"Roger," she said softly at the paper, trying to will him back. "Roger."  
  
"And all of the courage . . ."  
  
"Roger," she said again, louder this time. "Roger!"  
Sobs begin to wrack her body as a keening sound escaped her lips.  
  
"Come and lift me from this place . . ."  
  
She rocked herself back and forth, back and forth, holding the crumpled paper even tighter into her hands.  
She couldn't stop crying. She couldn't stop crying.  
She looked back up in the door, hoping against hope that he would be there, leaning against the door knob as he usually did.  
Standing up, she ran towards that door and opened it.  
She stared outside in the rain, looking for the car that was parked in front of the house.  
It was gone.  
  
"I know I could love you much better than this . . ."  
  
She stared into the rain for the longest time before saying her good- bye.  
Finally, with a whispered "I love you," she closed that door of her life and tried to face her new one.  
  
"Full of grace . . ."  
  
She peeked into her daughter's room, envious of her innocent slumber, before going back to their room -- her room now, really.  
  
"I know I could love you much better than this . . ."  
  
She leaned against the closed door of her room, closing her eyes. She looked at the piece of paper once again.  
  
"It's better this way."  
  
Folding it neatly, she placed it inside her hope chest -- the safest place she could think of.  
  
**************************  
  
"It's done," Clotho whispered. "All the players are set."  
Lachesis peered from behind her and stared the emerging new pattern. "You are sure about this?" she asked.  
Clotho nodded as she stood up from her loom and stretched her fingers. "Quite sure.  
  
Revised September, 2003 


End file.
